Something Different
by Psychofan
Summary: Inverts are being murdered in the streets of London. Holmes must come to terms with his romantic affections for Watson, catch the killer & keep himself from falling into a new sort of void that he can't get out of.  Shwatsonlock. 1st person POV: SH & JW


Okay! Hi there!

First off: if you're here because you watch me for '_Not an Exit_' (which you should totally go check out), fear not! I _will _continue it, I swear to God, but things have gotten a bit overwhelming at the moment. There are a slew of excuses that I can (and will offer once I update it) but I will spare you for now. Remain patient, much love for all of you.

Secondly, relating to this story: I really haven't planned this thing out. I just wanted some serious Shwatsonlock angst, with lots of denial and written as if it were told years after the incident occurred. Sooo I made it. Let's see how it goes.

I'll let you know now that there most likely won't be any sexy-times, because I am as much of a prude as Holmes is. Sorry!

Enjoy!

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><p>"Watson, could you . . .," The doctor paused halfway in pouring two cups of tea - for himself, since I would not be drinking any - at the kitchen table and I hesitated, knowing that what I wanted to ask would bother him. He took my hesitation as something more serious, setting down the kettle warily and giving me a worried look.<p>

"That is," I continued, "could you bring me my crutches? My legs ache from sitting so long." It was a very blatant lie, naturally, and I know that he saw quite easily through it. It was not my legs that ached but my mind; I had gone three days so far without a case to distract me, and I was already beginning to feel bored. I felt the dire need to get up and do something - anything - even if it were only hobbling around the sitting room like a crippled maniac.

The case that had been solved three days ago was the one during which I had broken my ankle and the reason that I was now confined to my flat, the crutches, and the sitting room settee with nothing to do but smoke my hours away and have Watson and Mrs. Hudson coddle me needlessly.

I will admit, however, that before and during the week that the case had kept me busy I had not taken very good care of myself, and so I had put myself into a state of sorts. More often than not I needed Watson's assistance and the accursed crutches to move about on the very rare occasions that Watson allowed me to leave the flat.

I had been through worse before, however, and I still find it difficult to understand why Watson insisted on worrying over me like some deranged mother hen.

Just as I had predicted Watson did not appear pleased at the prospect of me moving about, and he voiced as much with an irritated noise.

"Watson, I am merely afflicted with a sprained ankle."

"A broken ankle," he corrected me, "and it's more than that you are 'afflicted' with."

He was, of course, referring to the bruises that did not (as he was so convinced) affect me, and the minor head injury that unfortunately did. I had tried hard to hide them from him on the night that they were given, but Watson - ever clever - had naturally noticed when the dizziness got the best of me and I nearly fainted on him.

"I don't see why a mild concussion should prevent me from getting on with my life." I told him, knowing that I sounded irate. After a moment I sighed and closed my eyes, hoping that my silence illustrated my regret enough.

It appeared as though it had, for Watson sighed and took a seat in his armchair opposite me. "I would greatly prefer if you were to stay on the settee, Holmes," he told me, "you need to allow yourself time to heal." He looked at me with what he doubtlessly thought to be his most serious warning face; the one where his sandy moustache bristles ever so slightly and his eyes squint into tiny hazel slits.

It looks as if he ate something peculiar, and I couldn't help the laugh that escaped me.

He softened, and laughed himself. "Holmes, I feel as if you are mocking me." He teased, as my laughter faded into a smirk. Despite the mood in the room and the smiles on our faces I could feel the edges of a black mood creeping into my mind, and my limbs felt heavy. I glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece, and my eyes fell upon Watson, sitting comfortably across from myself, leaning forward with his chin resting on his hand. As my eyelids grew heavy I noticed the way the flames danced on his face and lit his hazel eyes.

He had a bizarre and perpetual softness of character about him even after witnessing many terrible things in his life. War; murder; disease; injuries. None of it kept him bitter or depressed about life's unfairness like I think it would for most; like it might for me. It was one of the things that I enjoyed especially about him, although I could never tell him or anyone else that.

"Goodnight, Holmes," Watson told me in his drowsy voice, and I managed to tell him the same before I let sleep claim me.

When I awoke the next morning I knew something was different, but it was not until three months had passed that I realized with confusion, reluctance and great worry that I - the machine, the brain, the emotionless genius - had ever so gradually - dare I even pen it now, years later - fallen in love with John Watson.

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><p>Oh, I am trembling in my slippers. Genuinely. The Holmes fandom is one of the biggest that I've come across, and they really know their stuff inside and out! I will admit now to being a relatively new fan. Why I chose to make my entrance to this fandom with a huuuuge, mostly unplanned love story told from <em>Holmes'<em> POV I don't know. Stupid, stupid idea! Ah, but what is a writer without a challenge?

So if I fuck anything up at all (if I got a canon fact wrong, if Holmes is being too unlike himself, if the process of a criminal investigation is incorrect, if I got a detail about the Victorian era wrong, if I butchered the British terminology, if my grammar and punctuation is atrocious, _if I am putting you to sleep!_) please, please let me know. Or if you have an idea of how I could make my writing itself better, do share!

I love learning how to improve.

So this chapter was pretty short; they should be getting longer. I enjoy reading stories with long, long chapters, and I hope you feel the same!

And to end this already much too long author's note, I will warn you that I am the most unreliable and sporadic updater ever. I apologise again and again in advance. I hope this doesn't turn too many of you away.

See you next time!


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